


nothing like a big bad bridge

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Consent Issues, F/M, Hair-pulling, Minor Violence, One-Sided Attraction, Restraints, Subtext, boot-licking, non-sexual accidental D/s lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 00:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16185899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Betrayed and held captive by the Resistance, Hux endeavors to keep his self-concept intact. It's really too bad that he doesn't know himself as well as he thinks he does.





	nothing like a big bad bridge

**Author's Note:**

> This story comes direct to you from the universe where the deleted "Rose Bites Hux" scene wasn't deleted. Because I love that universe and I live there now. :D An early draft of this was posted anonymously ~somewhere~~ as a response to a "bootlicking" prompt.
> 
>  _daylight, in bad dreams, in a cool world, full of cruel things,_  
>  _hang tight, all you, nothing like a big bad bridge to go b-burning through_  
>  Lorn - Acid Rain

Only the Resistance would be so moronic as to allow even the smallest of luxuries to a prisoner. It only took a few days for Hux to realize that the imbeciles had no concept of even rudimentary intimidation tactics or the necessary protocols for domination and coercion of captives. After nearly three weeks, nothing he'd seen had changed his mind.

They had taken most of his uniform after recording a hologram for proof of life, but he was allowed possession of his boots, shirt, trousers, and underclothes. A laundry droid was sent in every few days with an unfortunate, brown jumpsuit that he only had to endure for a few hours until his own clothing was returned to him. He was fed twice daily -- disgusting emergency rations, but enough to keep hunger at bay. He'd been interrogated several times, but once he'd realized that no one was going to torture him, it became an annoyance more than anything else. He wasn't even kept in a proper cell but, instead, a medium-sized room with its own 'fresher and not a single surveillance camera. There was a chronometer on the wall, a small table and chair to eat at, and a thin mattress on the metal bunk. They'd even provided him with a pillow and blanket.

It was utterly pathetic.

He'd been... less than pleased by his capture when it had occurred, but after weeks of this, he had decided to appreciate the unique opportunity he'd been given. It was clear to him now that the First Order had them at the brink. Before this, doubts had begun to creep upon him. He'd worried that the death of Snoke and Kylo kriffing Ren preventing him from taking his rightful place as Supreme Leader was going to spell the end to everything that he'd worked his whole life to achieve. After Ren's total failure on Crait, Hux had never felt such intense dread of the future. The months that followed had been filled with discontent and sleepless nights. 

But now?

Now, he knew he had no reason to worry. The Resistance was soft and weak. They were disorganized, inconsistent, and lacking the drive that only true, iron-willed leadership could provide. There wasn't a single member of their loathsome little group who had it in them to take control and lead them to the finish.

The Resistance posed no threat to him or his lifelong dream of ruling the galaxy. It was only a matter of time before every one of them, and every miserable creature who supported them, was crushed under his will and squirming beneath his boot. 

// // //

He was lying on the bunk, watching the chrono and imagining the brutal lesson that he would one day give on the fundamental importance of both respect and efficiency, when he heard the door lock release. He sat up just as it was thrown open and three young, human males whose faces he barely recognized rushed in. He leapt to his feet, but it was too late. They set on him with a flurry of blows, laughing as one of them shoved him, stumbling, back onto the bunk, only for the other two to haul him up again by his arms. He snarled and tried to fight them off, but he was no match. A well-aimed punch to the stomach doubled him over, wheezing and coughing. They dragged him to the table and chair on the other side of the room as if he were no more trouble than a little child. 

Like all the furniture in his makeshift prison cell, the chair was crafted from a strong Dallorian alloy and bolted to the floor. He was forced to his knees beside it and his wrists were shackled to the support bar that ran horizontal between its legs with a pair of antiquated bio-lock cuffs. He gnashed his teeth, swearing at them, ordering them to release him upon pain of death, and then swearing some more when they only laughed again. The position forced his shoulders into an awkward hunch, stealing his posture along with his pride. He was unable to rear up or away when they pushed him over, bashing the side of his face onto the cold, metal seat. He shouted, enraged, when the sole of a heavy boot stomped down onto his cheek, mercilessly grinding back and forth, as their plan for him was relayed in hideous detail. 

If the specifics of their scheme hadn't given them away, the pleasure they took in brutality would have. Oh, he may not have recognized their faces, but he knew their hearts like he knew his own: Stormtroopers; the ones who'd betrayed him to the Resistance. He suspected the leader of the threesome was FN-4913, the instigator of the little transport ship mutiny that had led to his capture, but he couldn't be sure. He couldn't place any of their voices; he had no reason to believe that he'd ever even heard them before. It wasn't as if he ever deigned to speak to any of the lower ranks beyond giving them orders that he expected to be obeyed without question. 

He had been forced to grow accustomed to _her_ voice, though, over the course of his imprisonment. He recognized it instantly when she shouted from the doorway. He tried to ignore the rush of relief that filled him as she demanded them to stop and angrily inquired what it was they even thought they were doing.

Faced with a disappointed dressing-down, they reacted exactly as their training dictated: falling immediately silent as they snapped to attention.

With the boot removed from his aching face, he sat back on his knees to reprimand them, his traitorous underlings. A dozen truly scathing insults died on his tongue when the leader -- FN-4913 or whoever he was -- actually attempted to stand up to her. (Did they honestly obey no one at all now? Not even one of their new allies? Madness!) Hux stared in honest horror as whatever-his-number raised his chin shakily and told her, "w-we don't have to listen to you!"

She didn't argue the point. To his deep irritation, she had only to suggest that she might tell The Traitor, their beloved _hero_ , what they had done. A disconcerted look passed between them and, just like the witless, weak-willed dogs that he knew them to be, they scampered away with their metaphorical tails between their legs. 

Traitors simpering at the feet of another traitor. It was revolting. If he cared at all, which he certainly did not, he'd tell her to warn FN-2187 to watch his back. Once disloyal, always disloyal. It wouldn't be long before they turned on him as well. There was obviously something very wrong with their minds, something fractured or incomplete.

Something he'd missed. 

_No, not this again_ , he scolded himself for the thousandth time since the mutiny. It wasn't anything he had done. He didn't want to believe that losing control had been his own fault. He couldn't allow himself to think it. It wasn't him -- no, the program worked! One need only look at how fluidly they operated together in an attack and at their instinctive desire to please those they considered to be their superiors to see that his training regime was perfect. It was the chaos and disorder of the galaxy that had polluted the minds of his Stormtroopers and turned them to rebellion! It was the New Republic and, even more, this absurd Resistance who were to blame!

Ever since... The Incident on the _Supremacy_ , the face of the Resistance in his mind was small and softly-rounded with dark eyes and a bite like a kriffing nexu.

It was her face. His jailer. Now, his savior. His _nemesis_.

His room service. 

He hoped that it wouldn't be her every night, and every night it was. Not on any sort of reliable schedule, of course. Not in any way dependable. She couldn't be bothered with that. She believed that he should be grateful that he even got his so-called meals. As if gratitude had crossed his mind even once since he'd been betrayed and imprisoned on this dusty backwater.

He'd been waiting for her for ages when the traitors had burst in. He'd been waiting for her, and that was why he hadn't moved into a defensive position when he'd heard the door lock release. That was why he'd only sat up to complain once again about her total lack of respect or anything even resembling a proper schedule. That was why it was _her fault_ that he found himself in this preposterous situation at all. Though he supposed now she would expect him to be grateful for the horrid food _and_ for her gross inefficiency. Because if she had come earlier as she should have, as he had demanded several times... well, it was better not to think about it. 

He heard her cross the room after the traitors were gone. She set down the tray and began to lay its pitiful contents onto the table as she always did. A fresh canteen of water and the usual vile dreck: a single-serving tube of flavorless Food Paste and small, round loaf of Polystarch bread that he merely wished was flavorless. He didn't want to look at her, but he reminded himself that it was in his best interest to watch her every move. She was as untrustworthy as a Kodashi viper: there was no telling when she might strike. 

She was frowning, her face pinched, and she had an odd look in her eyes. It was one that he hadn't seen before and it took him a moment to place it. As soon as he did, he felt another hot wave of anger wash over him. 

How dare she feel sorry for him!

To be attacked by his own men -- or ones who had belonged to him once -- was awful enough, but to be pitied by _her_ was a thought too repugnant to bear. No one pitied him! He was going to rule this galaxy one day! 

"Hurry up and release me," he ordered, rattling the restraints against the metal of the chair. "Now!"

Her frown deepened, but the sorry look disappeared. She stared down accusingly at him, flat and angry. This expression was familiar, even if the angle was not. "You're not even going to thank me, are you?" 

"Why would I thank _you_ for anything?"

"Because I just brought in your kriffing dinner and saved you from having to lick boots as an appetizer!" She rolled her eyes when he only scoffed. "You're unbelievable. I should have just let them do it: give you that 'reconditioning' and put you in your place. Maybe they had a good idea, after all."

The knowledge that she had heard their taunts triggered an uncomfortable sensation that he didn't want to name. Heat crept up the back of his neck. He looked away and laughed as meanly as he could muster to cover it. "Not even once in their miserable lives."

"Let me guess: they can't think, right? That's funny, because it looked like they were thinking pretty clearly to me."

"I imagine it would seem that way to dimwitted _garbage_ like you." 

He heard her sharp exhale of breath and smiled. He looked up quickly, wanting to see that spark of impotent rage in her eyes after being demeaned in this way once more. Try as she might, she couldn't hide how much she loathed the names he called her. Garbage, vermin, scum... he'd called her all of them and more since he'd been here. Forced to see her, to hear her voice. Forced to feel her teeth over and over every time she glared at him. 

"You know what?" She moved forward, crowding him so closely that he could smell the exact scent of the soap she washed with. His gaze fell to her mouth and his heartbeat thundered in his chest. "If you're not going to thank me, then you can go ahead and lick _my_ boots instead."

Disbelief shattered the small pleasure he'd derived from insulting her. He didn't want to believe that she was serious but was forced to accept it when she put her foot up onto the seat in front of him. It was so small; tiny, like the rest of her. She was so small and so insignificant in every way but in his mind. 

"Go on, Hux. Lick it clean. Shine it with your tongue." 

These words, too, were ones he'd been taunted with. His stomach squirmed, a prickling sensation bloomed across his skin. He sneered at her filthy, worn-out boot that would never shine again no matter what was done to it. "You pathetic, stupid, little-- _ah, ah, ow, ah!_ "

Her fingers were fisted in his hair and she gave him a pitiless shake before yanking his head back as far as she could. His back arched until he was stretched between the cuffs on his wrists and the brutal pain at the top of his head. He hadn't seen it coming, just like when she'd bitten him. She really was as unpredictable as a viper; as venomous and terrifying and fascinating as any snake in the galaxy.

"You don't even deserve to lick my boots." She leaned over him, close enough that he could feel her breath on his skin. Her hair was like a black corona around her face. She was breathing quick, barely restrained. Her dark eyes glared down into his, squinting in hate, as rage redded-up her round cheeks and she bared her dangerous little teeth for him. He stared up at her soft face contorted into a mask of such glorious viciousness, such ill intent, and the greedy desire to see how far she would go surged through his blood. "You don't even deserve to breathe the same air that I do. Say it! Say, 'I don't deserve to breathe your air, Rose.'"

"I don't-- _ah!_ \-- deserve to breathe your air, Rose!" He had never said her name aloud, never even allowed himself to think it. There was power in unnaming; control in the stripping away of identity. He squeezed his eyes shut and ground his teeth together to stop himself from saying it again, but he could feel it bubbling eagerly inside. He could hear himself begging her by name in his head; a nightmarish auditory hallucination that he knew would never leave him.

_Please, Rose! Please, Rose!_

She gave him another wretched shake, then crushed his face down onto her boot and held him there. Nudging the toe up roughly against his chin, his nose, his lips, until he had no choice but to submit.

He had no choice.

The leather was soft under his tongue as he swiped and swirled desperate strokes over the top of her tiny, dirty, little boot. His breath gusting in great pants as spit smeared his cheek. No desire in his heart but to lick it clean like he'd been told.

_Please, Rose! Whatever you want, Rose! I'll do anything you say, Rose!_

And then it was over. The sharpest pain gone as her fingers ripped from his hair, and the boot disappeared from under his face as if it had never been there at all. She stumbled back a few steps and his head turned instinctively to follow. The part of himself that would not be denied _needing_ to see her reaction, to catalog it away with the rest.

The boot he had licked was planted behind her, as far away from him as she could get it without disconnecting it from her body, but he could still see the difference that his mouth had made. Her hands were up, palms facing him. Her eyes were wide, staring at him as if she had never seen him before. Shock and disgust warred across her features. 

He looked away, scowling. (Damn her! She was insufferable. Was she never satisfied?)

He heard her breath shaking. Heard her gulp and say, "oh, Force! I'm sor--"

"Just shut up!" He shouted, watching as a burst of spittle speckled the seat in front of him like a constellation of faraway stars. He had no use for her pointless apology or her idiotic regret over doing much less to him than he would do to her once their positions were reversed and set right again. "Release me and get out!"

It should have made him proud that she rushed to do as he'd told her, but he couldn't find it in him. He'd never understood before how any victory could be considered hollow. 

He pretended to ignore her, though he doubted she believed the act. He could feel her eyes on him like a crushing weight as her thumbprint freed him from the hateful restraints with a beep and a click. She hurried away as he straightened up, correcting his posture. He swiped his sleeve over his mouth and smoothed his hair back. Composing himself. Erasing her from his outward appearance even if he would never be able to excise her from his mind. 

He waited until he heard the door lock reengage to pull himself from the floor and onto the chair. He stared down to his disgusting dinner without seeing it. His face and stomach were sore, his scalp burned, but those pains were infinitesimal compared to the humiliation of knowing that she had outmaneuvered him yet again.

He felt a shaking inside himself. There was a phantom ache in his finger. The taste of dust and engine grease and old leather on his tongue. 

At least he hadn't thanked her.


End file.
